


At Long Last

by radicallyred



Category: Marvel
Genre: Blow Jobs, Infidelity, Light Angst, M/M, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Post-Avengers: Infinity War Part 1 (Movie), Post-Captain America: Civil War (Movie), Rimming, maybe? - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-02-17
Updated: 2019-02-17
Packaged: 2019-10-30 02:27:40
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,947
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17820056
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/radicallyred/pseuds/radicallyred
Summary: “So. You want a drink?" Tony says finally, breaking the silence.Steve hesitates, but it's with a look of longing. He catches those pretty eyes lingering on his hands, his lips, everywhere but where they should be. "I can’t get drunk." Steve says automatically.“That wasn’t the question,” Tony shoots back, a playful gleam in his eye.“Tony, we should talk.” Steve says suddenly. It surprises him, his heart pounding in his chest. It wasn’t what he intended to say at all.





	At Long Last

**Author's Note:**

> I watched CACW again and I guess I'm full of feelings

They're too tired to have the benefit of good judgment on their side; that's the argument Steve's gonna revert to, if or when (and it's probably gonna be when) this all comes back to bite him. It’s rough. It’s not going great this week, or at all, and as it dwindles down to him, Clint and Tony in the common area of the compound, shooting the shit until late, and with Clint between them to mitigate the tension it's not so bad— it's part of what Steve's always liked about Clint. The way he can talk and talk until whatever tension in the room just dissipates, unnoticed. But an hour in, he yawns and announces,

"Well, I have to crash. We can’t all be super soldiers and insomniacs." Tony barks out a laugh at that and, shit, Steve shouldn’t find that so endearing.

"Night, man," Tony says with his bright voice, and Steve echoes it, hollowly, watching him leave. And then there's a strange, dangerous kind of silence, as Tony shuffles his phone around in front of him in front of him, flipping it hand to hand—nimble fingers, one of the first things Steve ever noticed about him— and starts to scroll through Twitter again.

“I figured I would tell you now, since it’s gonna come out this week,” Tony says quietly, sounding cowed, and Steve’s stomach jerks. “Pepper’s pregnant.”

Steve’s heart clenches. He feels it shatter, can feel the breath fall out of his lungs.

“Wow. Congratulations, Tony.” He says robotically.

“Probably gonna be down for the count for a while, then. Can’t do dangerous shit with a baby around.”

Steve looks over at the man, all bright-eyed and burned, and something aches inside him. A little tinge of suction somewhere deep inside his chest.

“Sorry if that fucks things up for you. You know how I am about not participating, but it isn’t just about me anymore.”

“No, that’s…” Steve trails off. “I get it. Believe me.”

"Yeah.” Tony says half heartedly. They fall into an uncomfortable silence, something that hasn’t happened since they’d been reunited. Steve’s mind is racing with so many things he wants to say to Tony. _I’m so sorry. I love you. Never leave me again._ But he can’t. Because Tony is engaged. Tony is an expectant father. Tony doesn’t love him anymore. Not since Siberia. Not since Steve slammed that fucking shield into Tony’s chest—Jesus Christ. Just as Steve is about to open his mouth to say something, anything to mend the relationship, anything to show Tony just how much he means to him, Tony clears his throat.

“So. You want a drink?" Tony says finally, breaking the silence.

Steve hesitates, but it's with a look of longing. He catches those pretty eyes lingering on his hands, his lips, everywhere but where they should be. "I can’t get drunk." Steve says automatically.

“That wasn’t the question,” Tony shoots back, a playful gleam in his eye.

“Tony, we should talk.” Steve says suddenly. It surprises him, his heart pounding in his chest. It wasn’t what he intended to say at all.

“I’m gonna stop you right there, soldier.” Tony says pouring himself a scotch, neat, and taking a sip. “We’ve fought. We’ve made up. No harm, no foul.”

Steve shakes his head. “I still love you.” He chokes, teas springing to his eyes. “I know you’re with Pepper. I know she’s having your baby. But, damnit, Tony. I can’t—you are the best thing in my life. I know that now. I wanted to die every goddamn day I wasn’t with you. And knowing I hurt you? Fuck, Tony, I can hardly live with myself.” Steve can’t look him in the face, so he focuses on his hands and the way they’re gripping the scotch glass. In a flurry of motion, Tony puts the glass down and comes to cup Steve’s face in his hands.

“I’m always gonna love you, Steve. That will never change. But I can’t love you. I have a kid coming. I have to make sure Pepper is happy. I need to be there for them, not just me. Not just the Avengers, or whatever the fuck is left. I just...you drive me so fucking crazy.” And, suddenly, their lips are connected. Tony’s gripping Steve’s shirt in both hands, Steve’s are resting on Tony’s waist. Tongues battle for dominance, licking hotly into the other’s mouth. And shit did Steve miss this.

When they pull apart, they both look stunned. Steve’s body is yelling at him to get the hell out, so he says the first thing that comes to his mind.

“I’m tired.” Tony blinks confusedly ay him for a moment, then takes a step back.

"Then you should go to bed.” Tony says. “Or, we can go back to my room, et some rest. It’s bigger, more spacious.”

It's not subtle; it hangs in the air like a thundercloud, heavy and about to burst. He watches Tony consider what he’s just proposed. He blushes, brow furrowing and just as Steve thinks he’s about to back out, he says:

"The second option," Steve says, swallowing half of the sentence before he spits it out. "I wouldn't mind that."

Tony pauses. "Yeah?" He asks Steve, just to be on the safe side. Steve swallows again.

"Yeah."

And Tony nods, trying for confidence, feigning assurance. "Cool, okay," he says. "Let's go, then."

The compound is eerily quiet, save for the routine beep of the elevator when it arrives to the floor. Once inside, Tony pushes up to kiss Steve and feels him stoop to meet his mouth, frenzied and wanting and practiced and perfect all at once. It's perfect.

Steve stops and grabs him around the waist. Tony yields to him, and Tony feels a warm sizzle of possessiveness in his chest. Tony moans into his mouth as Steve stumbles blindly in the direction of the bedroom, and lets out a shocked, breathy exhale on impact as Steve deposits him on the bed. And it’s happening so fast, so much at once. Tony can feel a joint pop in his wrist as he clambers down on all fours atop Steve; he can feel his shirt sticking to him with sweat. He pushes an offending piece of hair back off his forehead and yanks at his collar as Steve leans up onto his elbows, and then Tony gently pushes him back down, flat on the bed.

"Tony," he hears Steve say. "Oh my god."

Tony swallows again as he watches Steve shift on the bed, watching him. The idea of fumbling with his clothes seems fundamentally impossible right now, buttons and shit—a thought that makes him laugh because, hello, Tony fucking Stark—, but he can’t bear to have them all on much longer anyway, and Steve is looking at him with a scared sort of terrible hunger and something growls inside him, something he hasn’t felt in much too long, and before he knows what his hands are doing, he’s grappling with buttons and belt loops, shrugging out of his t-shirt and jeans and surging forward to trap Steve more fully against the pillows.

The bigger man bucks up against him, doesn’t bother to hide his arousal. He’s so responsive, Tony thinks, the way he keens as he bites at his jaw and then sucks a hard kiss to the sensitive skin on his neck. He’s taking it, accepting what he’s given, wrapping his legs around Tony’s waist again to pull him down to his mouth. And Tony goes, willingly, caging him in on all fours, all power and authority. Stupid idea and think about it aren’t the words he’s looking for— Steve’s got the fingers on his right hand sunk into Tony’s bicep, where his arm is trembling a little from holding himself up, and Steve’s stroking him there and panting against his lips and licking hot and dirty into his mouth, and it’s just too much.

“Tony, off,” Steve mumbles, and then pulls away long enough to clarify: “Take your clothes off.”

Tony does, almost abashed, yanking his shirt over his head one-handed and stripping down to his boxer briefs before he straddles Steve comfortably on the middle of the bed. He's grinding down, knowingly, much too knowingly as he eyes Steve’s erection, tenting his boxers— and Steve has half a mind to pull him up his chest to his face, hurl his underwear across the room, let Tony straddle his mouth as he eats that sweet ass, awkward position be damned.

“Sit on my face like a good boy,” Steve says the words with a nice lick after each one. He wonders if he’s half as responsive as he hopes he is. He wants to find out, needs to know, but Tony’s still grinding down, his abs flexing with every movement, and it’s already much too much.

Tony’s eyes flick up to Steve’s, grey-blue and cloudy, and he licks his lips thoughtfully before hooking his fingertips into the elastic of his boxers and pulling them carefully over his cock, down over his thighs.

Tony sucks in a surprised breath. Steve smirks.

“Whaddya want,” he mumbles, but it’s undercut by how Tony’s looking at him. A little scared, but challenged.

“God,” Tony says quietly, voice low and raspy. “You—fuck, Steve. Just you.”

Steve swears his heart skips a beat and he wants to cry and hold Tony in his arms and never let go. Instead, he swallows, nods, and says,

“Come on, Tones. Turn around, baby.”

It takes Tony a moment to follow the direction, but he catches on fairly quickly, turns, and lowers himself back down over Steve’s chest. It’s almost a regrettable position at first realization, Steve thinks. He wants to watch, wants to see Tony struggle with his cock, but then he grabs Tony by the hips, pulls him backward, balls and ass-first, and hears him exhale in surprise, and—oh, this is so fucking good. He licks a stripe up his perineum, hears him mumble a Jesus Fuck, and then it’s not even worth holding out any longer, can’t bring himself to tease, not when he’s got all this in his face and Tony digging fingers into the muscles of his thighs, bracing himself for impact.

Steve reaches up with both hands, spreads Tony wide. “God, I missed this.” Steve says, low and lusty. On Tony’s airless little gasp, he’s going all in, swiping his tongue across his hole, cupping his balls, applying himself in every way he knows how. Tony’s gasping, writhing with it, not even bothering to fulfill his duty in the position. It doesn't matter. Steve’s hard as he’s ever been, as he starts, basically, making out with Tony's hole, open-mouthed and filthy, making him buck back against his face, thrusting his cock over Steve’s chest, like he’s desperate for friction.  
“Fuck,” Tony’s panting, “oh my God, Jesus, Steve,” and then, “Cap—” and here Steve smacks his ass hard, for emphasis. Tony damn well knows Steve hates being called any variation of Captain in the bedroom. (He’d called him Daddy once, on accident, and as weird as it was, Steve would take Daddy over Captain any fucking day of the week.) He’s thrusting his hips faster now, and as much as Steve wants to make him come like this, all lips and mouth and friction against his chest. it’s not quite right. He pulls away. Uses one of the hands splayed across Tony's ass to wipe his mouth.

“Jesus,” he says, breathing heavy as Tony keeps thrusting; grabs his hips with both hands to steady him. “You need to blow me before I lose my mind.” Somehow, they maneuver themselves back around, and Steve props himself up enough on the bed to watch Tony shuffle downward, takes note of the flush on his cheeks all the way down to his chest. Tony blushes uneven, pretty but blotchy, like a Rorschach test. He’s not seeing anything but the distinct outline of his own desperate need here.

“Tony,” he says again. “I need you.”

He sees Tony swallow, nodding; Steve glances down at his own cock, laying hard and stupid up to his belly. Tony’s looking him over analytically, that problem-solving fervor in his eyes, the look he only gets when faced with a challenge he has no choice but to overcome. It fills Steve with a sick sort of pride. “Okay,” Tony says. “Sit like this.” Tony moves so he’s kneeling on the floor, then moves Steve so his ass is at the edge of the mattress, feet planted evenly on the floor.

He’s not gonna argue, so he sits there at the edge of the mattress with his legs spread wide and accommodating as Tony shuffles between them. Tony’s looking up at him with hooded eyes, licking his lips, before holding that searing, searching eye contact long enough to lift his hand to his lips and lave over it in one long, flat stroke, all confidence and grit. Steve groans despite himself.

“Tony,” he says, more of a whine, really, once more for good measure. “Baby. Please.”

Tony hums at that, like he likes what he hears, and Steve’s insides jump. And then Tony takes his cock in his slick palm and lowers his mouth, tonguing the head delicately before he takes it between his lips, and Steve’s eyes slide shut on impact, the feeling velvet-soft and overwhelming.

He can hear it, the way Tony tries to establish a rhythm, bobbing up and down with slick noises and letting the head hit the underside of his tongue. It’s not nearly enough; Tony’s not taking enough. Steve reaches out, threads a hand through his hair, and tugs slightly, pulling him off. “I know you know how to deep throat,” he says. “So do it.”

“Bossy,” Tony grunts. “I like it.” He winks, and Steve sighs, choking when Tony swallows him down to the root.

Tony is usually so good with his mouth, but he’s having some trouble tonight. Steve can tell only a few seconds in, the way his throat convulses before he pulls away, choking and coughing. Part of him realizes that it’s because it’s been three years since they’ve been together. The other part of him, the less rational one, thinks he looks so fucking good doing it, though, that Steve can’t think twice. “S’okay,” he says, voice rough, “you can choke on it if you need to—”

The breath Tony draws at that is ragged and hungry, and he’s barely so much as taken it before he’s diving back down, letting Steve push him down again. Eyes closed, but Steve can see the tears starting to gather at the inner corners, and he’s scarcely gotten another inch further before he’s pulling away again and they’re starting to roll down his cheeks. But they’re both gone, Tony with a secure purpose, locked-in and hungry and eager, his lower lip swollen and pink and face red and blotchy. There’s spit and snot and tears all running, coagulating together at once as he lets Steve guide him down, over and over, and he’s digging his fingers into Steve’s thighs, holding himself there, eyes shut tight, silently swallowing—

“Tony, baby .” Steve’s barely aware of his own voice, couldn’t modulate his tone or words if he tried. He’s nothing but words and want, his cock and the throat it’s buried in, the way Tony keeps pulling off to hack and choke and diving back down with an angry sort of need. Eyes closed, head-first. Hungry and needy and desperate to please; more spite and rage than real desire at this point. Steve’s not stupid. And then Tony swallows around him, fingers digging in hard on his thighs and that little bit of pain is enough to make the difference.  
Steve comes, loudly. Inelegantly. Inarticulate. Tony has no warning; he tries to parry it, but pulls off mid-way, coughing and catching the rest of it in the face, string of saliva connecting between the head of Steve’s dick and his lips—

“Fuck, baby,” Steve pants as he comes down, “please, let me make you come, I want to see you come for me—”

He’s barely said it before Tony’s palming his own dick, stroking himself off, still kneeling there on the floor. Steve tries to stop him, almost succeeds, but he’s too far gone. A little of his come lands on the side of the duvet.

This was stupid, he realizes. A weight settles itself deep in the pit of his stomach. This was so fucking stupid and he wants to regret it, but Tony’s breathing heavy, like he’s just exerted himself, and his face is a fucking porn-star mess and he’s so young and pretty, perfect unblemished skin and he’d only look better if he were more of a mess. Steve helps him up; hands him a Kleenex watches as he stumbles into the bathroom. He hears weird, heavy breathing and something that sounds almost like an inarticulate sob. Steve wants to punch himself in the face.

But Tony comes back to bed, and Tony curls up next to him and falls asleep quickly. Tony smells different, the same expensive, luxurious shower products he’s used for years. But there’s a warm heat diffusing it all, dirty sexy sweat that Steve wants to bottle and breathe in forever. He’s out in minutes, and Steve normally never has trouble sleeping, but this time—

No, he thinks, fuck it; he can’t intellectualize this now. It won’t happen again. He got what he wanted, it won't ever happen again.

He tells himself this, again and again, as he drifts into an uneasy daze.


End file.
